


Where Did He Go?

by Barb G (troutkitty)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-07
Updated: 1999-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:14:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutkitty/pseuds/Barb%20G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A week, MacLeod. Just a week. Neither one of us are going to spontaneously combust because we haven't ingested each other's bodily fluids."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Did He Go?

"A week, MacLeod. Just a week. Neither one of us are going to spontaneously combust because we haven't ingested each other's bodily fluids," Methos growled.

MacLeod grabbed Methos' lapels and pulled him forward. "Are you really willing to risk it, though?" he asked.

Methos was up to being manhandled as much as the next guy, especially when the next guy handling him was MacLeod, but he was starting to get itchy from being in the same place for so long. "A week," he repeated, lamely. "But just in case..." Methos grabbed MacLeod back and kissed him. He grabbed the back of Mac's head; it was supposed to be violent, but as he stuck his tongue down MacLeod's throat, he started to feel himself becoming seriously turned on. Mac felt it too, and gripped onto his hips, pulling him forward again. The big hands encouraged the first thrust, and Methos shuddered as they ran their way up Methos' back.

Mac pulled away from the kiss, and Methos went to suck on the man's Adam's apple. The heat from his groin spread up to his belly, and he mashed their bodies together again. "You're right, it's only a week," MacLeod said, and pushed Methos away.

Methos banged his head against the wall that was still warm from MacLeod's body heat. "Anyone ever tell you you're a sadist, Duncan MacLeod?" Methos asked the wall.

"You bring out the best in me, Methos. Come back in a week and we'll finish it."

"I'll hold you to that," Methos said, and pointed to the bed. "And to that." He pointed to the chair. "And to that." He pointed to the wall, but Mac grabbed his wrist.

"Don't you have a plane to catch?"

Methos grabbed his frayed bag. "See ya," he said.

Mac let him go. "Yeah, I love you, too," he called.

 

 

Methos threw the bag in the back seat and picked up his dry-cleaning on the way to the airport.

He stopped by the doorway and shielded the flame from the draft. The baccarat game ended, and the players stopped to look at him. Methos flicked an imaginary piece of lint off his tuxedo. "Pierson. Adam Pierson."

"Ah, Mister Pierson. So good of you to join us. I trust you came to play," the German said.

Methos bowed his head and sat down between the Russian and the Cuban. He pulled out a stack of francs from his jacket and smiled at the dark-skinned young waiter.

The dark-skinned young waiter smiled back.

"Banco," Methos said, flipping over the double queens to match his nine of hearts displayed before him. Piles of chips, larger than most small countries' G.N.P. were stacked in front of them.

The Cuban made a disgusted sound and threw in his cards.

Methos tossed a thousand franc chip at the waiter. "Have these totaled and the amount brought to my room," he said.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Pierson," the waiter said.

"Deliver them yourself," Methos said and met the boy's eyes.

The waiter blushed and nodded. Methos pretended not to see the significant glance between the Russian and the Cuban.

The boy was good, but he wasn't great, Methos decided as he got up to dispose of the last condom. He still preferred home cooking. He returned to bed and was trying to decide whether he wanted to kick the boy out or let him spend the night, when his door was kicked open.

"Yes?" he asked the Cuban.

"Did you enjoy yourself, Mr. Pierson?"

Methos half-shrugged. "It was passable," he said.

The Cuban snapped his fingers and the boy got up, dressed, and left the room.

"And yourself? No persistent head-ache, deep thirst? Are you seeing spots yet?"

"Yet?" Methos asked.

"The condom had a slow-acting poison infused with the talcum powder. Don't worry, though, it is completely reversible, under certain conditions."

"Certain conditions?" Methos asked.

"Your rather large winnings last night. Sign them over and we will give you the antidote."

The first of the side-effects hit him, and he suddenly became very, very thirsty. He reached for the glass of water by the bed, but the Cuban held out his hand. "I wouldn't do that. Water speeds up the poison. Simply sign this waver and we will have you on your way."

"Are you serious about this?" Methos asked, and picked up the glass.

"Deadly serious."

"I was afraid of that," Methos said and downed the glass. For a way to die, it wasn't bad.

Methos woke up in the middle of a vineyard. For a moment, he thought he had died for good and all the white was heaven, but then he realized he was only covered in a sheet.

He fought his way free, swearing and cursing, and gave a silent thanks that he had been killed by a higher sort of thieves. He was still naked, which to be honest was his fault, but at least they had left him his watch.

Stealing off a clothes line was tacky, but a necessary evil. From there, it was a simple matter of calling his bank and locksmith to unlock his car. Once back in his own clothes, he started for Tuesday's activities, only three hours late.

 

 

The small inflatable boat was not really meant for high speed adventures on the high seas. Methos was more surprised than any of the Japanese whalers that they actually caught up.

Waves lashed at the boat, almost unseating him, but he fought the wind and the water to keep a good grip on the rudder. Lars, his GreenPeace friend, smiled at him and gave him a thumbs up. Methos wiped his face off and went to repeat the gesture, but he didn't see the huge wave until he was in it.

 

He floated for two days. A fishing boat finally picked him up, and he counted himself lucky until he realized that they wanted more than just gratitude. Methos shrugged inwardly and put it off as the price of the fare.

He did think it was rude of them to sell him to the Arab without giving him even a small kickback, but it was his ticket out of Thailand. Not that the Arab was cruel to him, of course. The man actually showed him a tongue trick he couldn't wait to try on MacLeod. It was fun to romp around in a tent wearing silk again.

But he couldn't let himself get distracted. He had to hold MacLeod up to the wall on Sunday, and he didn't particularly want to be late. He played the good little Harem boy until Saturday and then stole away in the dead of night after picking the joke of a lock keeping his ankle to the tent-peg.

Another international call and real clothing waited for him at the airport with his ticket.

Mac met him at the door. "Where did you go?" he asked.

Methos shrugged. "Here and there," he said.

MacLeod hugged him, but grew tense in the embrace. "Um...why do you smell like a camel?"

End


End file.
